


My Girl

by SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff



Category: Scott & Bailey
Genre: End of Series 1 through to Post-Canon, Established Relationship, F/F, Secret Relationship, Wives Hiding Their True Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:02:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29513616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff/pseuds/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff
Summary: Julie has finally got her chance with Gill - just so long as she can hang onto her. Never bloody easy, not with that one.
Relationships: Julie Dodson/Gill Murray
Comments: 12
Kudos: 12





	1. Seeing Someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set after S1 Episode 6.

_I need to talk to you. Come and pick me up? Please. From the pub. G x_

_You never say please. Everything alright? Except what I already know about. J x_

_Tell you later. Not in the mood. G x_

_I’ll see you later, then. J x_

* * *

‘I told Janet I was seeing someone’. Julie keeps her focus firmly on the road, biting her tongue a little between her front teeth to avoid butting in before Gill is done talking. There’s a heavy silence, and she lets it linger for a few moments, unsure why this moment feels much more like wet concrete than she’d anticipated. Surely this is a good thing, that they’re coming out with it. Even if it might make things a little uncomfortable at work, they’d both be much happier without constantly looking over their shoulder in Tesco just in-case they bump into someone they know whilst holding hands. ‘Yeah? How did she take it?’ She prompts gently, allowing herself a lingering gaze at Gill whilst they’re stopped at the traffic lights. She hasn’t even asked where they’re going back to, but she presumes her place – Gill hasn’t quite gotten used to being an empty nester, and Sammy is with his dad, something she knows better than to remind Gill about. ‘She – I lied, Jules.’ She’s instantly confused, her eyebrows knitting above tired, lined eyes. ‘You didn’t tell her?’ ‘No, I _did_ tell her – but I didn’t say it was you.’ It stings more than she cares to admit. She can’t help the instinctive, sharp sniff she makes as she inhales and they pull away from the lights. It’s blatant, open – she may as well have tutted out loud. Or told Gill to fuck off. It’s tempting, sometimes. On occasion. But she knows Gill has had a truly shit few days, between Dave stealing her son and Rachel’s personal life exploding all over herself and everyone else, so she holds off. ‘So what did you tell her? Just that you were seeing ‘someone’?’ It’s a start, at least, for Gill to acknowledge that there _is_ someone she’s going home to each night. Or each morning, if you want to get technical about these things. Julie likes technicalities. Details. Semantics. She’ll never be content to just be a ‘someone’, not for any extended period of time, and the last six months of being under the radar have stretched her patience like overworked pasta. She feels _chewy._ Tense and uptight and not at her best, neither at work nor at home. She just wants people to _know_ , for God’s sake, is that too much to ask? 

‘No, I – I said I was seeing someone else. Chris Latham. I don’t know why he popped into my head, other than that I had a good chat with him recently, about Lynne Stott and everything, and – Janet wouldn’t let it go, and I was upset about Sammy, and I’m sure she saw – this –‘ Gill flounders, moving the collar of her blouse a little to reveal the dark mark Jules had sucked onto her collarbone a few nights ago. ‘-I just wasn’t ready, Jules. And it’s _Janet_ , I couldn’t just say nothing – ‘ Julie still hasn’t said anything, and she can see that fact starting to dawn on Gill. ‘Do you not have ‘good chats’ with me?’ Julie asks eventually, taking a left at the next opportunity and changing tactic, heading towards Gill’s instead. The significance is not lost on her passenger, who sits up a little straighter in anticipation of an argument. She hates how she does that – squares up to her physically and mentally, like she’s expecting something to kick off. She’s not fucking _Dave_ , for God’s sake. ‘Of course I do! I love you, Jules’ Gill protests, but something about it feels sour and curdled to Julie’s ears. She’s constantly trying to explain to Gill that you can’t simply love everything better. Gill is not used to being the bad guy, not at home, doesn’t know how to make it better when she fucks up. She’s more used to being wronged, to going on the offensive. It’s exceptionally tiring sometimes. ‘I love you too’ Julie mumbles, unable to stop herself despite her internal pang of protest. She _does_ love her. But this minor sticking point is rapidly becoming more of a sinkhole. It’s starting to occupy most of her waking thoughts, at least until she shuts the office door or has Gill naked underneath her larger, rougher hands, and even she can admit that it’s not particularly healthy. For either of them. She knows Gill has picked up on it, which makes her even more frustrated that she seemingly hadn’t felt the need to do something about it when presented with a perfect opportunity. ‘I can’t do this, G. Not now. Just – I need a bit of space.’ The words hang, limply, and Julie nearly loses her nerve and adds the ‘I’m sorry’ she’d been desperately avoiding. _She_ hasn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t her going around inventing fictional relationships with actual colleagues to avoid admitting to her best friend that she was in a happy, committed relationship with another woman. The past tense sticks to the back of her mouth as she thinks it. Christ, it can’t be as bad as all that, surely. They’ll work something out. She just needs some space, to be alone for a bit – to work things out on her own terms. She doesn’t trust herself to be able to stick up for her own wishes with Gill looking at her with those sad dark eyes like she is now.

‘I’m sorry’. It’s Gill who says it, for once, quiet and sincere. Jules has to concentrate very hard not to drive the car into a nearby building in shock or – something worse. She can’t fucking take this, not today. ‘I know you are’ is what she goes for, because it’s true. She knows Gill would never hurt her on purpose, but a careless pain is just as sharp, sometimes. ‘So – are we okay?’ Gill counters, far too hopeful considering the tense lines of Julie’s jaw, the incoming migraine she can feel starting to swirl around her temples. She feels like she’s been punched in the stomach, repeatedly, by a donkey. Or a hippo. ‘Not really, Gill, no.’ It’s sharper than she intended, but she can hardly take it back now. ‘Tell me why you’re upset’ Gill tries after a long moment, which Julie knows really means ‘tell me how I can make it better’. She can’t, but it’s rude to ignore people. ‘I know this is – harder for you, than it is for me. That you worry about what people will think, about you being with a woman. I do _get that_ , Gill, I – of course I do. It’s never bloody easy. But I just – it hurts that you feel like you had to lie. To Janet, of all people. Like I’m some – some huge fucking embarrassment.’ The radio is still on, some softly spoken young man wittering on about fishing quotas, and she suddenly can’t stand it anymore. The feeling of pushing the off button a little too hard is relatively satisfying – but she’s never been one for physical release, not in that sense at least. Prefers to stew, sulk, let it linger and ferment, until she’s yelling at some poor uniform for looking at her the wrong way. ‘You’re not an embarrassment. You’re wonderful.’ Gill is still far too quiet, timid for Julie’s liking, and she’s never been comfortable with compliments. Doesn’t know how to take them at all, they sit awkwardly in her hands like a distant relative’s newborn thrust upon her. Far too Important for Julie Dodson to handle.

‘It’s not just this’ she tries, hoping Gill will understand. She really doesn’t want Gill holding herself solely responsible for the way she’s imploded today – if it wasn’t for everything else, it might have hardly bothered her. Gill will be ready someday, surely, if she’s telling the truth, and Julie can’t comprehend a world in which Gill would lie to her. That just doesn’t happen. It’s just – ‘it’s just that everything is a bit – much – for me, at the moment. I don’t have five minutes to just – think. About anything. I’ve been on the back foot for weeks at work and I hate that, I hate it so much. And then we get home at stupid o’clock in the morning, fall into bed, shag the life out of each other so that we don’t lie there and just scream about how stressed we are, and wake up at six to do it all again. It’s just – is that what you actually _want_?’ Gill shakes her head, softly, just about visibly, mostly by the movement of her hair. That’s something, at least. They can agree that things can’t stay as they are. Even if they can’t agree on what they should be instead. They’ve reached Gill’s by now, and Jules doesn’t even think about it as she pulls onto the drive behind Gill’s car. ‘I’ll drive myself tomorrow’ is all Gill says, picking up her handbag and sliding out of the door with the grace and elegance of a minor royal. Perfectly put together. She hates her like that. She watches her, crossing the drive, the sharp click of heels on brick, and chances a little wave as she opens the front door and heads inside. Gill doesn’t look round.

It’s only once she’s driven home and shut the door firmly behind herself, slipped off her heels and slid into her worn down slippers, chucking her jacket over the bannister as she heads for the fridge that Julie realises she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s going to do with herself. It’s not like they haven’t been apart over the past six months, the job makes it unavoidable sometimes, but Gill always tries to make the time to ring her quickly or text her a piece of gossip or something funny she’s seen. She’s always there, Gill, an overarching warm sort of knowledge that someone out there is thinking about her, fondly. For once. Somehow Julie doubts that Gill is thinking particularly fondly of her at the present moment. If she knows Gill like she thinks she does, she’ll be three quarters of the way through a bottle of red before she falls asleep in her work clothes on top of the covers and wakes up two minutes before her alarm without a trace of a hangover. It would be impressive, if it didn’t set Jules on edge a little bit for some unknowable reason. Still – she knows she worries too much. Gill will be fundamentally fine, and if she’s a little miserable tonight – well, that makes two of them. Nothing in the fridge particularly inspires her, so she forces down some digestives and a milky tea before heading upstairs, not bothering to turn the lights on. The soft yellow glow of the streetlights outside is perfectly adequate when there’s nobody else here to be looking at – the less time she can spend looking at herself, the better. If they’d broken up, properly, she wouldn’t be alone tonight, God no. She knows plenty of pretty young things she could have called, on the understanding that it never meant anything, and they weren’t to ask too many questions. But she doesn’t want it, not tonight, not least because hopefully they can work it out. Slowly. She doesn’t know what she’ll do with herself if they can’t.


	2. Serendipity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set between the end of S1 and the start of S2.

The next week passes exceptionally slowly. Each morning, the same routine. Up at six, try not to think about how the bed doesn’t _smell_ right without Gill. Dig out a shirt, something plain, sky blue or salmon, never white, but none of her favourites, no stripes or flamboyance – she wants nothing more at the moment than to fade away into the back of her office chair and for nobody to say as much as ‘good morning’ to her. Then shower, where, upsettingly, she doesn’t even have the inclination to get herself off. Well, excepting Tuesday. And twice on Thursday, but she has a meeting with Karen that morning, so that doesn’t count – stress relief and genuine desire are entirely separate things in her mind. The tentative, very nearly tearful fumbling under the covers on Saturday morning when she actually allows herself to think about Gill for once, is best never thought of again. She really needs to learn how to do this emotional processing business, in a way that doesn’t involve her hand (or more commonly Gill’s pillow) between her legs. She really is thinking about it, getting some life coaching or something, on her way into the office on what is a particularly sharp hour of the morning for a Saturday, when she hears her phone buzz insistently in the little nook in the centre console where she keeps it so she won’t be tempted to look. It’s not fucking working this morning. The distinct ‘heartbeat’ noise, a little ‘buzz, buzz-buzz’ is reserved only for Gill – texts, calls, and emails, but she knows which it will be. She's sorely tempted to look. 

Gill cannot, will not, apologise in person. Not properly, at length, in detail. A short ‘I’m sorry’ is hard-won, but she usually manages to encourage one out of her when really necessary. But a proper explanation of what actually happened, and why, and what she’s going to do about it – Gill always has to write it down. Which, in the absence of carrier pigeons and this not being a Regency costume drama, means that Gill emails her. Her lengthy notes of apology are the only thing she saves in her personal email account, surrounded by order confirmation emails and online catalogues, the minutia of modern life. She deletes those, of course, can’t abide a messy inbox despite (or perhaps because of) the state of her office and her bedroom, but she keeps Gill's. Always. Even if it’s only ‘Morning Slap, sorry for stealing the last of your milk.’ Still. She’s not going to text and drive, even for Gill – there’s no way on earth she’d get away with that. She glares at her for going 23mph in a school zone in half term, for Christ's sake.

By the time she actually gets to sit down, in her office, alone, with no imminent interruptions looming, it’s nearly 10am, and therefore nearly three hours since Gill’s message. She’d glanced at her phone, caught the preview on her lock screen, enough text visible to confirm that it is what she predicted. Part of her almost doesn’t want to open it, has been finding reasons why she just needs to speak to this person first, or file this important piece of crap, but part of her is literally itching at her fingertips to read what Gill has to say for herself. It better be a bloody good apology. She’s not going to let her off with anything half-arsed, not this time. At least, that’s what she tells herself now, whilst knowing full well that if Gill were to turn up in her office doorway now it would all be forgotten. She is grateful that she hasn’t, wouldn’t. It’s unlike Gill to be the reserved, self-sacrificing one, and it feels distinctly important that she’s doing so now. Perhaps that’s why her fingers are shaking a little as she pulls the blinds on the window in her door, the universally acknowledged sign to Fuck Off, and settles in her chair to read the email. 

to: [julesdodson@outlook.com](mailto:julesdodson@outlook.com)

from: [gill_murray64@gmail.com](mailto:gill_murray64@gmail.com)

subject: Massive Tit

Jules,

I’m not going to say sorry again because you know I’m sorry, and you’d probably say sorry doesn’t help. Or something like that. So I’m going to be better, not just keep fucking up and apologising for it. Please don’t think I’m taking this lightly or I think it’ll be easy, like in one of those shitty chick flicks Orla forces me to watch. I know life isn’t like that, let alone when it’s us. Godzilla and the worlds grumpiest baby giraffe, hey? What a pair.

Anyway, I promised myself I wouldn’t try and do jokes to make it all better, so don’t expect any more. I love you, Julie Anne Veronica Mary Dodson. I really, really do. I’m sorry I ever made you question that, that my behaviour didn’t reflect that, and that I’ve essentially been a massive tit. I don’t think you need any more explanations from me, because I’m not quite sure I know properly why I was doing it in the first place.

I don’t know what scares me so much about the idea of being open about us, I really don’t. I couldn’t give a fuck whether people like me or not, you know that, if anything it’s you who cares what people think and yet you’re always so open and brazen and I really admire that about you, slap, I do. I know you’ll tell me off for paying you compliments, but hey. That’s why I write them down, so I can get away with it.

I’m not sure how I’ll react when we tell people – that’s the bit I can’t make any promises about – but I can promise that I want to try. For you, but for me too and mostly for us. Cliché, I know, but – I really mean it. Can we talk? Just – no expectations, on my part, I mean. If I make you a lovely dinner and wear something gorgeous and you tell me to sling my hook, I’ll get it, I will. And I would. Leave. If that’s what you want.

But I don’t think its what you want, and it’s certainly not what I want. So. Tomorrow? I’ve got stuff for a roast in, and no, that’s not bribery. Just well-timed coincidence. Serendipity, if you like.

See you tomorrow, I hope. Love you, monkey.

G x


End file.
